Right on the water—west-facing, the kind of place that probably looks incredible at sunset.
It’s got white walls, a marble kitchen counter, and high ceilings. And did I mention the ocean view?
It’s a little sterile for my liking, but the price is right for what I’m looking for. I don’t have some million-dollar contract. Not yet, anyway. Even though I’ve been playing well so far.
“Yeah, man,” Ray says, cracking open another beer in my backyard like he owns the place. I reluctantly agreed to let him help me move in since I needed someone. “You are gonna get so much ass in this house. Welcome to the big leagues, bro. Cheers.”
I huff out a quiet breath, and wave a hand.
“Nah. Not really my thing.”
He looks at me like I just spoke a different language.
“Not your thing?” he repeats. “Then what is your thing, man?”
I shrug, and think. It’s honestly a fair question.
I like long drives in the middle of nowhere with good company and no destination.
Good music from the soul.
People who don’t try too hard to impress.
I like backyards, barbecues with good friends, and hot dogs on the grill.
But most of all, it’sherthat comes to mind.
No, dude. She’s not even that into you.
I clear my throat slightly.
“Just…simple stuff,” I say. “I liked the Midwest when I was playing with that minor league team.”
Ray laughs, shaking his head.
“Man, you are in the wrong state for simple. We’re gonna be hitting the club, man. You gotta work on your bachata.”
I laugh. “I mean, I’m not going to hate the winters here, that’s for sure. I bet it’ll grow on me. Just gonna take some time. And sure, I don’t hate a dance party once in a while.”
He sticks around for another ten minutes.
Talking mostly at me. Then he leaves.
Honestly, I don’t hate the guy. I do have to play with him. And despite how he annoys me, hey—the guy helped me move in.
But with chatty Ray gone, just like that, it’s quiet again.
Way too quiet.
I head inside and just stand there for a second in the middle of my living room.
I have no couch and no rug. I haven’t picked out my furniture yet.
There’s just the one chair, and a bunch of unopened boxes stacked against the wall, which I still haven’t touched.
The place doesn’t have bad bones, but it feels a little barren, like a model home nobody’s actually lived in. A far cry from that homie, dark wood, early 1900s build of my home stay.
I grab a beer from the fridge and flip on the TV, propping my laptop up on a stool.
